Speaking in Tongues

It took place in St Paul's Cathedral. The sermon and blessing were given by the profoundly uncharismatic Archbishop of Canterbury, and there were other church bigwigs doing various other bits. The event was a celebration of the bicentenary of the Bible Society. There were a lot of people there, mostly very old -- some of them gave the impression of having been present at the Society's founding -- all done out in their best frocks and hats.

So what -- you might reasonably ask -- was a staunch atheist like me doing at this ecclesiatical shindig? Other than shuffling my feet and trying not to be too conspicuous as I maintained a stubborn silence during the congregational hymns and prayers, that is?

A staunch atheist like me was there to see Kym, who was there in his capacity as a jobbing dancer, performing in the two incongruous dance pieces that punctuated the show, accompanied by an excellent solo cellist and the dramatic declamation of bible stories. He hadn't really explained the event in advance, and by the time the full extent of it was apparent it was too late to make a dash for the exit, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

It turned out to be rather fascinating, albeit in a tedious kind of way. The Bible Society being dedicated to spreading the word of god around the world, much of the show was dedicated to the subject of language and translation. This involved some rather laboured metaphors about meaning and understanding, and some contentious assertions about the catalytic power of scriptural translation for a language's literary richness, and the very dubious claim that missionary translators conferred legitimate structure and syntax on previously formless aboriginal languages, but still, there were some interesting theses underlying all this nonsense, and some worthwhile points were made about how central communication is to human nature, even if those points were couched in godly terms.

There was something agreeably academic and scholarly about the whole thing, as if religion were just an intellectual debate among doddery old professors in leather armchairs, something to idle away a few hours after dinner, with no more consequence than a rubber of bridge. No tub-thumping, no hellfire and brimstone, just some dilettante linguistics and anthropology.

Which is, of course, exactly what it should be.

Which is, of course, exactly what it isn't.

Could I ignore, for the purposes of the occasion, the fact that the bumbling, shambolic buffoon in the pulpit was the same man who sold the established church (don't get me started on that one -- oh, you weren't going to?) of this country to homophobic zealots in a (doomed, I sincerely hope) attempt to fend off schism? Of course I could. It was a perfectly, drearily, civilized occasion, and I felt only a mild urge to leap up and Tatchellize.

Still. Woolly and well-meaning or not, they have to go, along with all their more aggressive cousins. Throw them to the lions. It's the only way.
Posted by matt at March 9, 2004 01:36 AM